


on the bathroom floor

by noeller



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Making Up, Short & Sweet, Vomiting, post-11x04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:46:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29034885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noeller/pseuds/noeller
Summary: Ian has a headache, Mickey overreacts, and the two of them finally have a decent conversation
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 30
Kudos: 287





	on the bathroom floor

The sun is setting by the time Mickey finally convinces Franny that it’s time to go inside for the night. He’s covered in sweat, and his legs ache from trying to keep up with 5-year-old that’s fucking esctatic about one of her family members finally playing the games that _she_ likes to play, and it’s tough to say no to her. He gets what it’s like to grow up feeling misunderstood by the people around you. Granted, he had some more severe circumstances with Terry being in the picture, but he’d still never wish that shit on anyone; especially not this little girl that reminds him so much of the man he loves that it’s almost creepy sometimes.

The house is buzzing with energy when they walk in the back door. That’s something Mickey's had to get used to when it comes to living with the Gallaghers. In this house, chaos is a good thing. It never was in his own house growing up, or in prison, or in Mexico, or even during the few months Ian and Mickey had to be a real couple all those years ago. Chaos then meant danger, but now, it’s just the sign of a family that’s pretty fucked up, but they love each other dearly. It’s new, and Mickey’s regularly shocked by how much he likes it. It’s a pain in the fucking ass to share a bathroom with everyone, and it’s annoying as shit when someone has an opinon on how loud their bedroom life is -- even though they’re the only married couple here and they deserve it, thank you very much -- but it’s good. Mostly, Mickey feels _safe_ here.

Liam’s setting the table for dinner, walking around Tami, who’s feeding Fred the dribbly baby food that smells like shit. Carl and Lip are both in the kitchen; one leaning against the counter with a beer and the other stirring a packet of cheese into a sizable pot of macaroni. Mickey’s stomach rumbles -- playing cops is hard fucking work -- but there’s a distinctive lack of redheaded Gallaghers. Debbie got a last-minute job that paid too well to pass up, but Ian should be here. He hardly ever goes out by himself anymore, and there’s no reason for him to be somewhere else right now.

“Hey,” he says to Liam, voice somehow drowned out even though there are only five people and a baby around him, but Liam still hears him. “Where’s Ian?” he asks.

“Upstairs. I’m supposed to tell him dinner’s ready.” Mickey nods at him, rolling his eyes as he heads up the steps. It’s such a fucking _Gallagher_ thing, he’s realized, to pass tasks off at the first available opportunity. It annoys him a lot of the time, because he’s not used to phrasing his questions in a way that will prevent _him_ from being the one with a growing to-do list, but he’s in a good enough mood today. Finding a decent fucking job with good pay has been making day-to-day life considerably less heavy over the past couple days. 

The door to their bedroom is closed, and Mickey pushes it open without much care for the noise, only to reveal an image that truly makes his stomach drop to his fucking feet. The lights are off, the curtains closed, and Ian’s lying on his stomach in their bed, his face hidden in a pillow.

Mickey feels his hands start to shake as he closes the door behind him. It doesn’t do much to muffle the sound that’s travelling up the steps, but it’ll hopefully help Ian focus on him instead of getting distracted by the background noise. Mickey remembers that happening a lot the first time he saw this, and Ian would sometimes zone out for hours, just listening to everyone else in the house live while he rotted away in that shitty bed. Even if it’s been years, Mickey still figures he can use the same playbook.

He moves slowly across the room, bending down to sit on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t let his legs touch Ian, but he gently places a hand on his back, stroking softly with his thumb. “You okay, Ian?” he asks dumbly. Of course he’s not fucking okay. 

Ian mumbles something into the pillow. Mickey tries, but he can’t make out a fucking thing that came out of his mouth, so he leans down even closer to Ian’s face. “Say that again.” It’s hard to keep his voice from sounding too choked. Ian was _fine_ two fucking hours ago. He was joking around and cuddling with Mickey until Franny appeared. He’s been off recently, but Mickey thought things were settling now that they have this job. He has no idea what the fuck is happening right now.

Ian turns his face to the side, eyes shut tightly. “Migraine,” he whispers.

Mickey feels a flutter of relief in his chest, though it’s not much. Ian’s clearly in pain, but at least he’s not depressed. No one needs to panic just yet.

“Didn’t know you got those,” Mickey admits, feeling a little bit shitty about it. He’s been a part of Ian’s life for ten years now and somehow didn’t know about this, and he doesn’t understand how.

“Stopped at the beginning of high school, started again a few months after I got diagnosed. One’a the pills usually keeps them from getting bad,” Ian explains quietly, eyes still squeezed shut.

“Well, it’s not fuckin’ working, is it?” Mickey asks.

Ian cringes at the volume. “Shh,” he hushes, pushing his face back into the pillow. Mickey rubs his back as an apology. It’s not his fault. Mickey can’t make him feel worse because he can’t control his worries. He takes a deep, kinda-shaky breath.

“You need anything?”

“Dark and quiet. Go eat dinner.”

“You sure?” Mickey asks apprehensively. 

“Yeah, just gonna lay here.”

“Okay,” Mickey says, pressing three kisses in quick succession to the side of Ian’s head. “Text me if you need somethin’.”

“Mhm,” Ian hums. Mickey pulls the blanket over him as he gets up. He still has his jeans on, so he’s probably not too comfortable, but getting him out of them is a battle for Mickey to fight later tonight.

He walks back down the stairs. Coming from the silence of their room really makes him hyperaware of how fucking _loud_ the Gallaghers are. They’re sitting down, serving up the food that Lip’s cooked. Now that he thinks about it, he’s pretty sure it was Ian’s turn to make dinner and Lip wasn’t planning on staying tonight.

Lip looks at him. “He feelin’ any better?” he asks.

“Nah, just wanted me to leave him alone.” He sits next to Lip, leaving Ian’s empty chair on the other side next to Liam.

Lip nods. “Fiona used to put a hot towel on the back of his neck when he got migraines. Doubt it’ll help much, but I don’t think we have anything heavier than tylenol with Frank around.”

“Yeah, I’ll try that.” It doesn’t sound like a very effective way to deal with Ian being in such bad pain, but he’ll try it. He’d probably try fucking anything to get that uncomfortable grimace off Ian’s face.

He eats quickly, not really engaging with anyone’s topic of discussion. Aside from all the trouble his dad is making next door, it’s been a relatively uneventful couple of days, so no one really has anything too interesting to say.

He begs off clean up duty, too -- even though it’s technically his turn -- reminding everyone that he has a sick husband that needs to be taken care of. He scoops what’s left of the mac and cheese onto a plate. It’s not too much for Ian to choke down, but hopefully plenty to keep his meds from coming back up or giving him the shakes. He fills a cup with water and goes back to their room, setting the food and water quietly on the dresser as he rushes to the bathroom, turns the water on as hot as it will go, and soaks a rag before wringing it out.

He’s as quiet as he can be when he returns to their room again, trying to silently shut the door, which is virtually impossible with that piece of shit. “You asleep?” He whispers. 

“No,” Ian mumbles into his pillow. Mickey loves further into the room, folding the rag in half and laying it on the back of Ian’s clammy neck. 

“Lip said your sister used to do this.”

“Mhm.”

“You wanna sit up for me?”

“No.”

“Too bad. Up,” Mickey instructs, patting Ian twice on the back. He whines pathetically as he shifts, and Mickey holds the warm rag in place as he sits, propping himself up on the wall. Mickey stands just long enough to grab the plate and the cup he put on the dresser. Ian willingly starts sipping the water, but he looks apprehensively at the mac and cheese.

“‘M not eating that,” he says.

“Yeah you are.”

“I’ll puke if I eat that.”

“You’ll puke if you don’t. You wanna take your meds on an empty stomach when you already feel this bad?” Mickey asks. He already knows the answer, and even if Ian denies it again, he’ll just figure out another method. Ian’s not great at realizing when he’s being manipulated, and Mickey’s used that to get what he wants a handful of times since they’ve been married. It’s easier than arguing with someone who’s too fucking stubborn for his own good.

“Fine,” Ian huffs. Mickey hands him the plate, rubbing his thigh as he takes a few slow bites. He only ends up eating about half before he shoves the plate aside, insisting that he just can’t take another bite, and Mickey decides not to fight him on it. 

He lays back down, and Mickey crawls over him to his own side. Ian cuddles into his hide, but quickly pushes back, cringing. “You smell loud,” he says.

“How do I _smell loud_?” Mickey asks, confused.

“Just do. Stay on your side.”

“Fine, bitch.” Mickey huffs. “Love you, too,” he says sarcastically. Ian puts his arm out, attempting to placatingly rub Mickey’s tummy. Mickey might be angry about it if Ian wasn’t reaching out in apology even though he’s in pain.

Mickey does his best to stay quiet, turning the volume down on his phone to play a game. Ian’s hand is still on his stomach, and he’s pretty sure Ian’s falling asleep, and he’s debating the pros and cons of waking him up now or later to get his pills in him when he starts taking unusually deep breaths and shifting uncomfortably. “What’s wrong?” Mickey asks. 

Ian doesn’t say anything but a quiet _shit_ as he jumps out of bed, his hand flying up to cover his mouth. Mickey sighs before he follows behind Ian, finding him sitting on his knees in the bathroom, coughing and sputtering into the toilet. He tries to soothe Ian, gently scratching his head, but Ian pushes him back. “Fuck off,” he says. “Told you this would happen.” Mickey wants to argue, because, yeah, he did, but how was Mickey supposed to just let his husband go without eating on purpose? That sounds ever crueler than force-feeding him. Still, he takes a few steps back. He closes the door and leans on it. He figures he’ll wait until Ian catches his breath to try to figure out if he’s actually mad or if he just snapped because he feels shitty and weak.

Ian gags a couple more times. Mickey’s heart hurts a little at how fucking weak he looks, especially since he’s trying to be as subtle as possible about the fact that he’s still here and can’t really comfort his husband. Ian obviously _knows_ he’s in the room, but making it obvious would probably piss him off, and he _really_ needs to calm down right now.

After a few minutes, he finally seems to chill out a little. He slumps back so he’s sitting instead of kneeling, and he puts his head in his hands, leaning forward slightly, and that’s when Mickey jumps back into action. “Don’t put your face on that,” he says. “Fuck knows who’s pissed on it. You might get fuckin’ herpes if you put your mouth anywhere near it.” He grabs another rag, this time soaking it with cold water before he wrings it out.

Ian sniffles. “Don’t think that’s how it works.”

“What d’you know?” he asks. He flushes the toilet and closes the lid, squatting on the floor in front of Ian. He presses the cold rag on his forehead, dabbing it along the side of his face. Ian leans into it, sighing and seeming to relax a bit. “Feel better?”

Ian looks up at him with red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. “You’re hovering,” he says.

“You’re sick,” Mickey points out.

“I’m always fuckin’ sick,” Ian spits out. Mickey ignores it, dabbing his neck with the rag, but Ian pushes his hand off once again. “You don’t have to do shit for me all the time.”

“I’m putting a wet fuckin’ towel on your face. Don’t get bitchy about it.”

“You got me a job ‘cause you thought I couldn’t do it myself,” Ian argues.

“I got _both of us_ a job ‘cause it’s good money and I like workin’ with you.” Ian huffs, looking off to the side. “The fuck is your problem?” Mickey asks.

“You tryin’ to get everything sorted out so I’ll be okay when you go back to prison?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “What’s your fuckin’ obsession with this? I’m not goin’ back to prison.”

“You have an unregistered gun under our bed, Mickey.”

“Would you rather I just died, then?” Mickey asks angrily. “You know how many guns Terry has? You think he won’t pop both of us the second he gets bored with playing his little game? I throw that piece out, I might as well go ahead and shoot my fuckin’ self so he doesn’t get the satisfaction.”

“Why don’t you just tell the cops about all the shit he has?” 

Mickey huffs, fighting the temptation to smack Ian’s sore head. “You have way too much trust in the system for someone that went to prison for something you did when you thought god was talkin’ to you. Cops don’t give a shit about people like us, Ian.”

Ian sighs tiredly, closing his eyes and opening them again when they fill with tears. “I can’t lose you again, Mick. I _can’t_.”

“You’re not gonna.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can, and I do,” Mickey insists. Ian looks wary, but Mickey doesn’t let him speak again. “I _promise_ I’m never leavin’ you again. We’ll work and save up, couple months and we’ll get outta here, and I’ll sell the gun, okay?”

Ian takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he whispers. He pauses for another moment, then says, “I’m sorry for hitting you last week.”

“You still thinkin’ about that?” 

Ian shrugs. “Shouldn’t’a done it. You’re my husband.” 

“Don’t be sorry. You’re a better fuck when you’re pissed.” Ian’s mouth quirks up, and Mickey feels a bit of relief at the fact that Ian’s _finally_ listening without getting upset after months of fucking fighting. “Think we’re even on hitting each other. We can call it now and no one wins.” A huff of laughter makes the rest of the tension drain from Mickey’s shoulders. Ian sticks his hand out to shake, and Mickey smiles. “Fuckin’ dork,” he laughs, but he grabs Ian’s hand anyway, then looks him in the eyes. “We’re s’possed to take care of each other. Just ‘cause you need a little more sometimes don’t mean I think you’re some weak little bitch, man. I _love_ you.”

“Even when I’m crazy?” Ian asks softly, looking down and playing with Mickey’s fingers. Mickey sighs, deflating a bit. He knows he’s said some shit he shouldn’t have said over the last few months. He _does_ regret it, most of the time immediately after he says it, but it’s tough to resist when they’re fighting so much. It’s a low fuckin blow, but it’s also low hanging fruit when Ian’s pissing him off or calling him out.

“Especially when you’re crazy,” he admits. “Fell in love with your ass when you were off your fuckin’ rocker. Think I have that Stockholm syndrome shit.” Ian chuckles, and Mickey smiles. “Shouldn’t’a said any’a that shit about your meds or your bipolar. Didn’t mean any of it.”

Ian looks up and smiles. “Love you, too, you big softie.”

Mickey rubs his hand over Ian’s head, stopping at the back. “Not kissin’ you ‘til you brush your teeth, though.”

Ian groans. “Help me up?”

“Sure thing, gramps.” Mickey stands, grabbing both of Ian’s hands.

“I’m not the one that has to keep antacids beside our bed.” Mickey pulls Ian up off the ground without much trouble, considering how jacked Ian’s gotten over the last couple months. Shit, maybe working out is doing something for him.

“You wanna compare pill bottles, bitch?” Ian smiles.

“Go away,” he says. Mickey listens, running to their room, grabbing the plate of mac and cheese to take it downstairs to avoid another incident, completely ignoring the concerned glances and questions from everyone that probably just heard Ian throwing up and the two of them arguing yet again. Ian’s already undressing when he gets back. He normally wouldn’t lay around in just his boxers, but Mickey’s not gonna say anything about that right now. He strips off his own shirt so Ian won’t complain about his ‘loud smell’ again, then gets in behind Ian.

At first, he’s kind of upset than Ian’s not turning around to cuddle him, but he gets it if he’s not in the mood to touch right now. Then, Ian reaches back behind him, pulling Mickey’s arm over his waist and scooting back so they’re pressed together. Mickey smiles against the back of Ian’s neck. “You the little spoon tonight, Gallagher?” he asks teasingly. Ian lightly elbows his ribs. 

They settle into the quiet. There’s a faint hum of the other Gallaghers coming from downstairs, but it’s comforting instead of loud and annoying. Mickey rubs Ian’s upset stomach, and Ian relaxes in Mickey’s arms. “G’night, Mick,” he mumbles sleepily after a few minutes.

“It’s 8pm,” Mickey points out.

“Sooner I go to sleep, sooner this fucking headache is gone.”

“Meds, Ian,” he says, even though he’s pretty fucking sure there’s no chance Ian can keep those down. It feels irresponsible to not say something about them.

“You wanna take me to the hospital during a pandemic when I start puking blood?” Ian asks. Mickey knows he doesn’t want an answer, so he makes sure Ian feels him huff hot air onto the back of his neck. “I’ll be fine for one night. Take ‘em as soon as I get up tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

“Alright,” Mickey sighs, kissing the back of Ian’s head. “Goodnight, Mr. Milkovich.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Gallagher.”

**Author's Note:**

> once again, i’m bad at endings
> 
> since the last time i posted a fic, i started taking antidepressants, was (officially) diagnosed with adhd, rescued and decided to keep two kittens that were hiding in the engine of my car for two days, had covid for the second time, turned 21, and started a small business. I was starting to think there wasn’t any room left in my brain for fic writing when i got a burst of inspiration for this. You’re welcome for the overshare. i know this isn't my best work, but hopefully it gets me back in the mood to write things that i actually finish.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I’m sensitive, so please be kind if you have any feedback!
> 
> [my tumblr](https://ianscurls.tumblr.com/)


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